The sign outside said "Live Music 12-2." I was right on time.
I expected to see four or five Carhartt wearing hillfolk in John Deere hats, spittin' Skoal between long, whining lyrics about honkytonk women, failed crops and fishin' holes.
I went inside..
"Good mornin' Ameeericaaaa how are ya?"
Those weren't Carhartt wearing hillfolk...
"Don'tcha know me.. I'm your native son."
One man, standing in the center of a smorgasbord of' tiny shops filled to the brim with knickknacks, wutnawts and miscellaneous treasures. He wore long shorts, a t-shirt and flip flops, his dark, almost black hair hanging a little in his eyes, strumming his guitar and singing loudly, without any form of mechanical amplification. At his feet lay a beautiful mandolin, nestled snuggly in it's open case, waiting it's turn.
I have a thing for musicians. I can't help it. Ma was the same way. It must be genetic.
I listened as he strummed and sang and I shopped for hidden treasures. I ended up with a business card holder and a $2 sheet for Ma's bed. We go through a lot of sheets. I spent about an hour, browsing and listening before making my way to the front.
I'd spent a whopping six bucks.
"Love is kinda crazy with a spooky little girl like youuuuu..."
Oh that song.. It made me smile. I looked up. He caught me smiling.
And he smiled at me.
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